


An Apple Pie Life

by Florchis



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art and gardening as therapy, Explicit Consent, F/M, Healing, LLF Comment Project, Let my children rest, No spoilers whatsoever for S5, post framework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 07:18:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florchis/pseuds/Florchis
Summary: To help Fitz recover after the Framework, Daisy suggests Jemma takes him away for a little of time off.Between pepermint plants and apple pies, maybe they rediscover that life can be okay.[Canon Divergence]





	An Apple Pie Life

**Author's Note:**

> This was supossed to be done for Day 4: Future of the FS Appreciation Week, but life hit me on the head and made that impossible. 
> 
> Please click on the link to read the entire poem that inspired this, because it's magnificent.
> 
> The idea of Fitz using art therapy as a way to cope with trauma comes from many of the wonderful fics by @theclaravoyant. Go check her stuff, because it's great.
> 
> Rated T because I suck at ratings and this doesn't feel like a G? Sorry?

Banner by  [@memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://memorizingthedigitsofpi.tumblr.com/)

* * *

 

**_We can’t have it all._ **

**_I know it, but humor me._ **

**_We can’t have it all, but we can have most of it._ **

**_A sliver of it, at best,_ [ _and that might be okay._ ](http://alonesomes.tumblr.com/post/85291832976/where-can-we-plant-the-garden-im-thinking-a) **

**_A lemon tree, definitely. Write that down._ **

* * *

This is not what they were promised.

 _(Nobody made you any promises,_ May would say with her calm and stern voice, if she knew. _You made your choices and now you have to live with them,_ she would say if she knew, and that’s exactly why Jemma doesn’t tell her.)

They are back, true, but they are not _really_ back. Fitz will never be the same.

None of them will, actually. Now there is a lot more of second-guessing, a lot more of double-taking than it had ever been before. Jemma calls it The Sorting Out Process. She just never expected that what should have been a temporary _process_ would become the status quo.

It’s not even the pain of the wound itself that is the biggest issue. What hurst the most is the knowledge that there have been wounds, that there are scars left on their wake.

They know now what is real, but who said that knowing would make any difference.

Fitz will never be the same.

Jemma understands it now; it doesn’t matter if it is because of the memories, because of the terrifying potential, because of the real world consequences; it is, probably, because all that and because none of it. All in all, with enough details wiped out, what happened to him is the same that happened to her: he went through something and now he is different. That is a fact.

When she is sure he can not see her, Jemma gets angry. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair. He has always been so giving, so open, so generous, and this is what he got in return: pain. Well, if that’s how the world pays back his kindness, maybe the world doesn’t deserve him or his kindness.

“Maybe you should do just that,” Daisy tells her. “Be a little selfish, just for once, take him away, and keep him safe and to yourself.”

Jemma bites her lip, considering.

“Being away won’t fix him.”

Daisy shrugs.

“Maybe he doesn’t need fixing. Maybe he needs to know what your dream together looks like now.”

Unsurprisingly, Daisy is right. They are not in a position to make any long-term decisions, but a break will do them good. Just a breather, to catch up with themselves and with each other, to redefine what they want and what they expect from a life within S.H.I.E.L.D.

Coulson pretends to put on a fight, arguing that he can not afford to lose both heads of his Science and Tech Department in the middle of another rebirth, but there is not actual heat behind his words; he is right, but they are not robots built to fulfill his requirements, and he caves easily when Jemma puts her foot down. Daisy- and maybe even May- being on her side probably tipped the scales on her favour.

She details the specifications- just a few; she has big ambitions, but she can make do with very little-, but Daisy is the one to actually choose the place. It’s important for her to go in with as few expectations as possible, the same as he will.

* * *

Fitz puts up much less resistance than she expected. She wasn’t completely honest with him; she just told him that they were going away for some time; she didn’t say for how long, she didn't say where. She didn’t mention that it wasn’t for a mission. But he didn’t ask either, so it isn’t totally her fault, right?

Or maybe she is misleading him in order to help him. Yeah, she can own up to that. She is done with being righteous just for the sake of it. He is the love of her life and her partner; she will lie her face off in order to help him if that is what it takes.

(Some time from now, she will remember- or truly understand it for the first time- that not being upfront with each other caused a lot of their troubles that are not directly related to being cursed lovers within a spy organization. But for now he needs to be treated with care, and caring for him is the best thing she knows how to do.)

“Jemma, what is this?”

Of course, bringing him here maybe not with lies, but definitely without explicit and true statements, has its disadvantages too; now is the time for her to face them.

“It’s a modest dower house, Fitz, please.”

He glares at her, and Jemma’s heart flutters in her chest. He has been so measured and timid lately that watching his features showing any kind of emotion feels already like a victory.

“‘Course. But why are we here? Are we taking point for a mission?”

“No. We are here for us.”

“Wh-wh-wha, what? We are not, I mean _you_ are not, you can, you can not retire, Jemma. Not because of, of, um, of me. ”

It’s been awhile since he stammered this badly, and her heart drops.

“Fitz, if I were to retire, it would be for _me,_ don’t underestimate me. But no, nobody is retiring, or at least not yet. Consider this just a, um, a necessary time off?”

“I don’t need a time off!” His reply is so quick and so vehement that is obvious he doesn’t believe it in the slightest. “I’m not, um, not a charity case, Jemma. I don’t want anybody’s pity. I can cope with this, and if it turns out I can’t, I will be on my way. I don’t want any special treatment.”

_God, is that really how he feels about things?_

“Fitz, I swear-”

She doesn’t have time to present her arguments, because he storms into the bedroom, and leaves her in the kitchen area, her mouth hanging open.

Well, this is going _extremely_ well.

But at least he is angry instead of apathetic, and him remembering that he is allowed to be angry about things- that anger is not necessary a toxic reaction- is a step in the right direction.   

She will take whatever she can get.

* * *

If he really wants to come back, they will come back, she decides the next morning.

The night has been rough. She cried herself to sleep on the couch, more frustrated than actually sad. She woke up in the middle of the night, back stiff and bloodshot eyes, because Fitz was carrying her to the bed. She tried to apologize and yell at him all at the same time, and ended up producing a mumbled sound that Fitz shushed gently. She fell back asleep before her body touched the bed.

When she wakes up in the morning, he isn't on the bed with her or anywhere else in the house.

The thing is this: he is great at pretending he doesn’t need help- they both are. Their entire team is, actually. But she can see right through his bullshit, and also she knows the facts. She doesn’t want to treat him with kiddy-gloves, but the situation is delicate, and if they pretend it will just go away- like they did so many times in the past- it will probably only pester on them.

She doesn’t want him to wallow and cry and write a journal of his intrusive thoughts- although she would totally support him on that, too, if he wanted to do it. But he is struggling, and she just wants him to feel right in his skin and to allow himself to take things at a pace that can be healing.

She doesn’t think the ever-vertiginous rhythm that always surrounds the team is the right setting for him to do that, but if he does, she will respect his decision, and that’s final.

She is on her second cup of tea, reading the same page of her book for the fifth time, because she is too anxious thinking about him and checking the clock’s hands every thirty seconds to be focused, when he comes back.

His trousers are dirty, like he has been sitting on the ground, and he looks both determined and calm.       

“I’m sorry I reacted before giving you time to express your intentions, and before thinking how this might be good for you too, not only for me, and for that I apologize.”  He says it all in one breath, like he has been rehearsing it the entire trip back. “But I also want you to know that I don’t like being kept in the dark about things, and I’d rather you had been upfront with me about this.”

“Fair enough. I will try to do better in the future. Tea?” She uses the offer as an excuse to get up and turn her back on him. Him being open about his feelings gets her choked up, and she doesn’t want him to see the tears on her eyes.

“Please.”

* * *

They take two cups of tea each in a companionable silence before he speaks. The ball is on his court and she is ostensibly letting him lead the conversation.

“Tell me why do you think this is a good idea.”   

“It was Daisy’s idea, actually.” She confesses. “I was mad, I _am_ mad, that you are so good to the world, and still this freaking cosmos keeps on throwing you nasty curveballs.” He furrows his nose at her sports metaphor, and she wishes he were close enough for her to elbow him gently on the ribs, but he isn’t.

Baby steps.

“You don’t believe in fate, and you don’t believe in the cosmos as a sentient entity.”

Jemma rolls her eyes at him so obviously deflecting.

“Neither do you. Not really.” He scoffs, but the point of his right foot taps against hers lightly under the table, and her heart climbs to her throat. “What I mean is, this isn’t Perthshire. It's not trying to be Perthsire, either. We haven’t talked about what we want our future to look like. Not really. So this isn’t me trying to lure you away from S.H.I.E.L.D. and become a farmer and raise half a dozen of children with me.” He is not looking at her, his eyes fixed on his empty mug, but she waits till the the tiniest smile appears on his lips to continue. “This is not our long-term future. But maybe we need to start thinking a little more about our short-term future, about what we need today to be better tomorrow. And well, I thought that maybe a little break would do us good. Was it a bad idea?”

He doesn’t reply for a long time, just keeps rubbing up and down her shin with the side of his socked foot.

“Maybe we can make it a good one.”

* * *

They go shopping to the miniscule mall that is on the nearest town. They get groceries and supplies to keep the house running; Jemma picks up books and some gardening utensils and encourages Fitz to choose things for himself. He deliberates for a long while, but ends up picking some basic tools.

“There are a couple things in there that could use an upgrade,” he says, sheepish, and Jemma tries her hardest to not beam at him. She wants him to go at his own pace, and therefore triesto not pressure him by over-reacting to any sign of progress, but to see him being more like himself with each day is a gift.  

She throws some art supplies in their cart for good measure, and he pretends like he doesn't see them.

* * *

When they get back, she dives face first into the small garden the house has on the back. She doesn’t really have a history of having a green thumb; when she was young she was too restless and too abrasive to dedicate patience and care to growing something.

 _You are such an odd bird, Simmons. You grew up focused on dead things,_ Fitz said to her one time.

_How dare you. I love animals and flora on their natural state._

_Yeah, but you also love to have them on your dissection table._

_… how_ dare _you._

During her time at the Academy and Sci-Ops, she went as far as having a couple of potted plants, but her projects and her lab-specimens always took precedence over them. More than once, after a set of finals or the deadline on a big project, she came back to their shared apartment to find the plants missing, Fitz not wanting her to be greeted back home by their decaying brown leaves.  

But going into the field, Jemma thinks, has given her an advantage: she has spent many hours caring for human beings during the last four years, while growing a thicker skin and roughed up hands herself; after that, plants should be easy-peasy, right?

Right.

She doesn’t plan on staying here long enough for sowing seeds to be worth it, so instead she just bought a couple small aromatic plants and dedicates herself to weed out the plants already in the garden. She is good at cutting out invasive beings, after all.

She almost doesn’t see Fitz all day, but she is not worried; giving him all the space and time he needs is also part of her dealing strategy. She is not surprised when she falls asleep and he still hasn’t come to the bed. Sleep is still one of the hardest things for him: it’s easier to remember who you are when you are awake and alert and _being_ yourself than it’s to regroup and reassess while being bleary-eyed and still half out of it.

He is not on the bed when she wakes up either, but on his pillow there is a charcoal drawing of her crouching down near the peppermint.

* * *

“We should paint an entire wall white so you can paint on it. Or black, if you prefer.”

“Do you think the owner would appreciate that?”

“He’s getting more than enough money to let us do whatever we want.”

“And what if, um, what if I, ah, paint something that we don’t like?”

“Then we paint over it and start again. Or we learn how to live with it.”

* * *

This is not a magical fix for their problems.

First, because they don’t believe in magic.

Second, because there is no such thing as an easy fix for this.

It is, as Daisy very wisely put it, not a matter of going back to what they were before, but a work in progress of making peace with that they are now. Jemma knows it, but it’s hard to reconcile the theory with the practice, because this time there is no brain injury showing on his MRI, or scars on her skin after coming back from Maveth. Now there is only him, and the mirror reflecting back someone he doesn’t completely recognize.

Sometimes it is easier because it is stuff they are used to: him waking up soaked with nightmares or not sleeping at all, his bad hand acting up or his stuttering coming back in full force. It doesn’t mean it’s _easy,_ but better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, right? There are physical symptoms, and Jemma can deal with physical symptoms; she takes care of people, she is good at it even if she does it with reluctance (not because she doesn’t want to do it, but because who said that it was okay to put such a burden on her shoulders?). She can hold him when he is shaking, she can massage his hand until it gets better, nudge him in the direction of the words he is looking for, or be patient while he looks for them on his own.

Physical is good, she can handle physical reactions and therefore physical support. She is _trained_ in handling physical difficulties, after all.

But what can she do to help him _heal his feelings?_ To help him when his gaze gets lost, or he panics in the middle of a sentence because he got a bad flash, or he just can’t find himself inside his own skin?

She _sucks_ at feelings, and those are big words coming from someone who prides herself in excelling at everything.

It’s not that she doesn’t have feelings herself, it’s more that she doesn’t know how to put them in words, and when she express them with actions, it’s usually with a non socially acceptable one. He has always been the sensitive one between the two of them.

She cares for Fitz, she just doesn't know how to take care of him this way, and it’s hard.

It’s hard because she gets frustrated, it’s hard because she doesn't know how to work around it, it’s hard because sometimes she wonders if, once again,he would be better if they were apart.

It’s hard because she has to watch him suffer and suffer and suffer while both of them re-learn that recovery is not linear and doesn’t have a reliable timetable: sometimes better means two steps ahead and three behind, four steps ahead and two behind.

It’s hard because she _loves_ him, and how can that not be enough?

* * *

A thing they learn together is how to manage expectations.

She has been on the other side of this when she got back from Maveth, and she has been on this side before, too; but they both handled the aftermath of The Pod so badly that sometimes she’d rather think that this is her first try. (Other times, she fiercely says to herself: _No, it’s not. You screwed up once, Jemma Simmons, you are not going to screw it up again, because you are better than that.)_

They put back in practice a lot of things that they know in theory and that had fallen behind in the day-to-day routine of an established relationship, like the constant assessment of consent. Fitz is on edge with everything related to physical intimacy, and Jemma tries to walk the thin line between not pushing him into anything he doesn’t want and reminding him that she likes him, wants him, loves him.

It’s hard, because all those feelings are true, and even though she is not by herself a touchy-feely person, they have always been _close,_ and sometimes not being able to touch him is almost as bad as if they weren’t together at all.

But she copes, and she manages, and as time passes, she starts savouring each touch, no matter how small, as a huge victory and as something worthy of excitement in and on itself.

She doesn't push, but opens up options, because the line has two sides, and one of them requires her to be honest about her feelings and her needs.

“I made a peppermint lotion with the plants on the garden,” she tells him as nonchalantly as she can manage while she is pouring herself a cup of tea. He raises his eyebrow at her. “Don’t give me that look, that was _one_ time.”

“One time that you almost set our apartment on fire.”

“And what, do you think you have the monopoly on homemade disasters?”

He laughs then, a fully formed belly-laugh that she hasn’t heard from him in so long; it makes her feel like there is an army of butterflies doing scuba-diving in her esophagus, leaving her dizzy and bold.

“I thought that maybe I could use it to give you a massage. You know, on your hand. Or, or, or someplace else. If you want,” she says it all in just one breath, feeling the burning heat high on her cheeks and ears; this is _Fitz,_ for god’s sake, there is no need to act like a schoolgirl. And yet.

She waits for his answer biting her lower lip, a thumping heart in her chest. If he says no, it won’t be the end of the world. If he says no, there will be plenty of opportunities for him to say yes.  _And if he never says yes, that won’t change a thing._

But it’s mid-morning and they are having tea in companionable silence alternated with amicable laughter; there is soft sunlight coming through the windows, and Fitz’s fingers drumming against the breakfast counter are the most erotic thing she has ever seen in her life, and they are okay. They are okay.

“Come here.”

She goes obediently and Fitz gestures for her to sit on his lap. She complies before overthinking it; if he is asking, she owes him that much trust. The warmth of his skin permeating through both his clothes and hers is almost overwhelming.

“Jemma Simmons, are you trying to seduce me?”

This is not fair. She is trying to keep a moderate distance between their hips while still bracing his outer thighs with her inner ones, all while tryig to not whimper at the entire disposition: she is trembling with anticipation while he is the picture perfect of restraint, and she is in no position to try to be smart with him.

“Only if you want to be?”

He traces the side of her face with the pad of one finger, looking strikingly serious. She has almost forgotten how unfairly blue his eyes look from up close. They have kissed during the last few weeks, but nothing like _this._ This time, they are breathing the same air charged with intention, and for Jemma it’s like she is having a long-term heart-attack.

“Maybe I do want.” He is _teasing_ her, and it is driving her insane; she has always been of the opinion that he was attractive, even before, but now is just unbeliavable how sexy she finds him. He draws her closer by her waist, and this time she can not keep in the whimper the movement elicits out of her. “Do _you?”_

This was not the plan. She was supposed to gently lay him down and massage away his knots of worry with hands smelling like peppermint and maybe, _just maybe,_ bring them near the possibility of a deeper physical intimacy. But the fact alone that he feels comfortable enough to take charge of this? That’s called progress.

"You can’t imagine how much.”

“Good.”

He kisses her then, slow but intense, building up passion and affection and desire, all in one kiss. Jemma pants into his mouth, his fingers dripping down her hair until they find her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her spine.

“Bedroom?” His voice is rough and low, and it makes Jemma’s stomach swoop. She doesn’t trust her own voice to reply, so she nods fervently and lets him lead her.

* * *

She wakes up with the smell of apple and cinnamon making her nostrils tingle.

She feels almost obscene, waking up at the shameful hour of 10.30 am, her naked skin bathed in sunlight. But if this is obscene, she deserves obscene.  

She goes looking for him, already dressed up (once upon a time, she would have been shameless enough to go looking for him naked; but well, times do change), and she is not surprised to find him in the kitchen, brewing Earl Grey for two. However, she _is_ surprised for the still-warm apple pie that is sitting on the kitchen counter.

He wishes her a good morning with a kiss on her temple, and she quickly scans his face for any sign of discomfort or regret or panic for what happened the night before, and only when she doesn’t find any, starts commenting on the breakfast setup.

“Is that your mum’s apple pie?”

He smiles at her.

“It is.”

“So are you telling me that all these years we’ve been waiting to go to Scotland to eat it when you could have made it for me anytime I wanted? You are lucky we are not married, because I would be divorcing you on the spot.”

He chuckles at her humorous comment, but doesn’t look her in the eyes while he replies.

“It was something that was my mom’s, and I was always too scared of screwing it up to try it.” She takes a step towards him, and when he doesn’t flinch or protest, takes another one and links her arms around his waist. She checks his face, but he doesn’t look pained or sad, just nostalgic. Fitz leans down and kisses the top of her nose. “But last night you said that we have to allow ourselves to fail, and for things to be hard. That we have to remember that we deserve to have the things that bring us joy. You did say that, didn’t you?”

Jemma swallows before answering, her throat feeling way too tight. She hadn’t forgotten how nice it felt to be held by him, but she is rediscovering that this is one of those nice things that can bring them joy, and that they need to embrace as much as they are embracing each other.  

“I did.”

He hums, and with her eyes closed she feels the reverberation through his chest.

“And I thought, well, this is our new life. Shouldn’t our new life be filled with new things?”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of LLF Comment Project, whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Prompts
>   * Image reactions/li>
>   * Reader-reader interaction
>   * This author replies to comments.
> 



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